


Upon These Holy Hands

by sellswordking



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sellswordking/pseuds/sellswordking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert knows nothing better than his guilt at what he feels for Monsieur Madeleine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon These Holy Hands

The rosary was wrapped about his wrist, Christ in all his glory set to lie against his palm in the flickering candle light. It was nothing lavish, this gift from one man to another--in true it was not a gift at all, Javert was not sure if he was meant to take the thing with the commotion that followed, but the holy antiquary had found itself in his pocket, and Monsieur Madeleine had not brought its theft to his attention. Oh, the reluctant Monsieur le Maire, who would believe the poison those dishonest and foul dregs would pour into his sympathetic ears. The scum of the gutters would pick this fellow to his bones had he not a man like Javert at his flank to remind him of the law.  
  
So what had Javert done? _Oh_ , he had been no better than they, accusing Monsieur Madeleine of being the scoundrel Jean Valjean. In truth, he should have been sent away for his mistake, he should have been severely punished, but that big, soft heart had once again allowed leniency where _it should not_. It believed his apologies, and rewarded his honesty when Javert _should_ be punished for what he had done, and indeed the degree he had done it.  
  
That beautiful man, whom turned such a small town into something so much more than it could have been through sweat and through toil and _faith_.  
  
Javert looked again to the rosary, and the image of Christ’s sacrifice for the good of a mankind that did not deserve it. Monsieur Madeleine was not far behind--his acquiescence would be taken advantage, his sacrifices spit on and disregarded, and as the people were forgetting their maker, this town would forget its dear Monsieur le Maire.  
  
However, Javert would not forget. Such an astounding feat of strength from a man who had not been laboring in his rightful place, and a _sharp_ mind to run his town as well, doing his best to keep the people employed and to keep them in line. Monsieur Madeleine was a man to aspire to.  
  
Aspire to, and . . .   
  
_No_. Javert could _not_.  
  
The beads against his skin burned at the very thought, as if Christ was displeased.  
  
A man could be master of his body, it would be a temple for one who lived his life as it should be so--pure until marriage, respected and unabused.  
  
But the _urge_ was so _impossible_  to resist for Javert. His skin would tighten and his passion would be inflamed by this specimen of man, who did so love his honor and his desire to help that it would blind him to the evils and injustice of the world.  
  
A man who breaks a law, nay, a _person_ , any person, who breaks the law _must_ be punished.  
  
Quietly, the rosary thumped dully against Javert’s inseam as he took a palm to his growing flesh, working it gently beneath the trousers of his uniform. There were superiors to Javert who looked up to his pristine, pressed uniform, and to his impeccable posture and indeed the ground he stood on the streets of France; how they would _scorn_ him now, and so rightly they would be!  
  
What he did was _shameful_ , how he whimpered was pathetic--it took him back to the gutter, to where life began in a muddy hole behind bars. The way his hands roamed was a sin, and his _mind_ begged and pleaded to be allowed its fantasy. Try as he might, Javert was no more than mortal in the end, and he would sin.  
  
The snap to his trousers was simple, as was getting beneath to his undercloth, and to pull it from the way was already a distraction big enough when he was so very in need.  
  
 _Monsieur Mandeleine would surely help, though he may be disgusted._  
  
As soon as the thought crossed him, Javert made sure to give himself a painful twist, to make the beads dig into the sensitive flesh and make his vision falter. The eye of Christ could see him now, but Javert saw only Madeleine, his forgiving workman's hands that had been so soft to him today, so pleasant and gentle coaxing and whispering prayers.  
  
 _O Father, please, forgive my sins, please bless me with your light and your wisdom; O Father, my Savior, guide me to my end on this world and I beg you show me how to do your bidding. Bless that which I am given and all that is taken from me so that I might know piety and grace to repay what you have done for me. O Father, **O Father** . . ._   
  
Javert had drawn himself in, crossed at the ankles and slouching as he never would allow before his men, able to _feel_ the second hand upon himself and Monsieur Madeleine’s warm breath at the back of his neck and over his ear, helping him to pray. Release came with a shout, and it slid through his fingers and into the wood of the polished beads, down to the crucifix to compound his shame even as the burn of passion still washed his soul.  
  
By the passion and the blood, Javert knew when he was taken. He had soiled his beautiful gift because it still reminded of the man who had given it, and disgraced himself; in uniform nonetheless. He would be punished for his weakness, but it would not stop him from washing the rosary and praying with it again.  
  
 _O Father, please, forgive my sins_  
  
 _O Father please forgive_  
  
 _O Father_  
  
 _O, **forgive me**_ **  
**


End file.
